SOME COSTLY PETS.
1. Mr. S. Woodiwiss's short-haired English tabby, "Champion Zenophon" (worth £100). 2. The Hon. Mrs. McLaren Morrison's Persian, "Ameer" (worth £100). 3. Mrs. C. Hill's short-haired blue, "Patrick Blue" (worth £50). 4. Madame Portier's long-haired blue, "Blue Boy" (worth £100). 5. Mrs. L. G. Leverson's Siamese, "Rynda" (worth £30). 6. Miss G. Willoughby's chinchilla long-haired, "Zaida" (worth £160). 7. Miss G. Willoughby's Siamese, "Fulmer Banjo" (worth £50). 8. Mrs. Herring's "Champion Jemmy," English silver tabby (worth £100). 9. Hon. Mrs. McLaren Morrison's long-haired black, "Satan" (worth £100).
Music (BUGLE CALL SUMMONING THE COOKS TO GET THE MEN'S GROG FOR THE DAY.)
HOME LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.
DESCRIBED BY ONE WHO HAS LIVED THERE.
TO the majority of Englishmen the phrase "Life on board a Man-of-War" calls up pictures of smart gun-drill, tactical exercises, and other more or less irksome though necessary duties. Few people indeed have any cognizance of the way in which our bluejackets live their daily life and how they manage to amuse themselves in the spare time at their disposal during the three years afloat, which is the usual period of a seagoing ship's commission.
Jack is awakened at 5 a.m. in summer and 6 a.m. in winter by the loud blare of a bugle under his hammock, and the hoarse voices of the bosun's-mates shouting "Show a leg there. Arise and shine, 'rise and shine. All ha- - - - - -nds lashupandstowhammocks." Having lashed his bedding in his hammock in the regulation manner, by taking seven turns round it with his hammock-lashing, he has his breakfast, for which meal he is allowed half an hour.
He then works and drills more or less continuously until noon, with the exception of 15 minutes' "stand easy" at 8 a.m., when he is allowed to smoke, and to go down to his mess and eat and drink if he feels so inclined.
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
SERVING OUT JACK'S GROG (12.30).
At noon the ship's company is "piped to dinner."
Noon is the dinner hour of our navy right throughout the world, and though things have greatly changed since the introduction of steam and the torpedo, the navy still retains the "bosun's pipes" of the days of Nelson. No sooner is the shrill pipe sounded than there is an excited rush of men to the cook's "galley," whence arises a cloud of odorous steam redolent of baked meats, vegetables, and baked and boiled "duffs" (so dear to the naval heart of all ages), which are to feed the 600 or 700 odd hungry men just released from work.
Men going on watch at noon—as the Marine sentries, for example—are allowed to fetch their dinner at "seven bells" (11.30), and sometimes ludicrous mistakes will arise through this privilege. The men take turns to prepare the dinner, and the cook of the mess for the day usually fetches his mess-mates' dinner from the "galley." On one occasion which the writer recalls, the cook was at work on deck when the bell struck seven, and could not get away. Several of his mess-mates (he was a Marine Artillery man) having to go on watch at noon, proceeded to the "galley" in quest of their dinner, and "fisted" (seized) a savoury dish they imagined to be theirs, without first examining the brass mess-number on the side thereof. The dinner was divided and eaten, and the plates were being washed up, when a group of excited bluejackets, having questioned every other mess in the ship, made their way to No. 19 mess and hungrily demanded their dinner.
The Marines had taken the wrong one, but offered their own in exchange. Search at the "galley" failed to produce the missing meal, which was eventually discovered stowed away beneath a wash-tub under the Marines' mess-table, uncooked. The absent-minded cook for the day, who was much taken up with a song of his own composition, entitled "A Barrack-room Dinner," which he was to sing at a forthcoming entertainment, had, in his contemplation of the visionary meal he was to sing of, forgotten to take the actual dinner to the galley, and there it lay in the mess in all its uncooked glory.
After a somewhat heated discussion, the Marines appeased the bluejackets by paying for a dinner of corned beef and pickles from the canteen, and thought they had heard the last of the matter; but the sailors had determined to pay the "Joeys" in their own coin, and did so a few days later, when the ship's company, being at "collision quarters," the Marines' messes were emptied of all their inmates. A party of bluejackets was stationed with the diving apparatus on the main-deck near the Marines' messes, and in the party were several who had suffered the loss of their dinner. It was 4 p.m., and noticing a large "plum-duff" on the table, evidently intended as a delicacy for tea, they pounced on it to a man. When the Marines came down in hungry expectation, behold! there was but an empty dish.
Dinner time lasts an hour and a quarter, and at "one bell" (12.30) the bugle-call for grog—"Nancy Dawson," as it is nick-named—summons the cooks to the grog tub.
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
TEETOTAL SAILORS RECEIVING CASH INSTEAD OF RUM.
The bugle-call, which is unknown even to army men, is given on the previous page.
Each man above the age of eighteen is allowed half a pint of grog, usually mixed in the proportion of one part of rum to three of water, and hence familiarly termed "three water"; and the number of half-pints due to each mess is served out to the cook of that mess for the day. The cooks stand à queue in the numerical order of their messes, the mess whose turn it is to pump the grog-water for that day (the messes take daily turns at so doing, petty officers' mess excepted) standing first "on tally," and the grog is served out by a petty officer and the Marine sergeant of the guard, under the supervision of a warrant officer and the ship's steward, who, book in hand, checks off the number of pints allotted to each cook.
The grog-tub is usually decorated with some loyal motto worked in brass, a first favourite being "The Queen, God bless Her."
A large proportion of men, thanks to the praiseworthy exertions of that true friend of Naval mankind, Miss Agnes Weston, are teetotalers; and these men, together with the boys under 18, are allowed money instead of rum at the rate of one penny one day and three farthings the next alternately. This is paid them once a quarter (monthly in harbour ships) by the paymaster in exactly the same manner in which the entire ship's company receive their ordinary pay.
The dinner-hour, too, is a convenient time for the sale of dead or "run" men's effects.
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
AN AUCTION—SELLING A DESERTER'S CLOTHES.
When a man has absented himself without leave for seven days he is officially posted a deserter, and any clothes, uniform, &c., he may have left behind him are sold by auction to the highest bidder, the proceeds going to the Government.
Jack Tar, like a great number of his social superiors, does not believe in giving a paternal Government any more than he can conveniently help; and many a great bargain does he pick up at these sales. For instance, a white duck tunic, such as the master-at-arms is holding up for inspection in our illustration, and which costs Jack 4s. to 5s., will start at 3d. and slowly mount up to 6d. or 8d., beyond which sum the bidding seldom rises.
At 1.15 p.m., dinner being over, on ordinary week days the bugle sounds "Clean Guns," and work recommences; but on Sundays and Thursdays (known to the bluejacket as "Spun-yarn Sunday") the ship's company are granted an afternoon of rest.
As soon as dinner time is over the bosun's mate pipes the sufficiently obvious pipe "Hands make and mend clothes"; and, as Jack makes all his own wearing apparel, he is not slow to take advantage of the time allowed him.
In fine weather the men bring their machines on deck and smoke and sew together. Every conceivable kind of needlework does Jack execute equally well. And not only the rank and file, but the petty officers also are glad to make their own clothes rather than buy them ready made; and though Jack is generally a self-taught tailor, he turns out far smarter work than the slop-shops. The difference is very obvious if one compares a bluejacket wearing uniform "built" by his own deft fingers, with one who is wearing a suit bought at some "Naval Outfitter's."
The men have the forward part of the upper deck to themselves, the petty officers having the space further aft set apart for them; but this advantage is not without its little drawbacks. Witness an incident experienced by the writer.
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
JACK AS TAILOR—MAKING AND MENDING HIS CLOTHES.
He was seated by a ventilator playing chess—a favourite game—with a comrade. The fleet was about to enter Vigo, and a heavy sea was running, drenching the fo'c'sle and the other side of the deck, but leaving the space where the players were seated dry as a bone. They were just congratulating themselves on their comfortable quarters, when the ship, suddenly altering course to make the entrance to the bay, slewed round to port, and a heavy sea came neatly in and caught them as they sat. Chessmen, board, and players went suddenly floating about the deck in picturesque confusion, to the great amusement of the onlookers, who were expecting some diversion. Going below to change his clothes—for he was wet to the skin—the writer had the bad luck to stand directly under the same ventilator, and no sooner had he donned dry clothes than another malevolent and illfavoured sea came carefully down the ventilator shaft and rendered him as wet again. He tenderly avoided that ventilator during the remainder of the cruise.
Thursday afternoon is the recognised time for the opening of the mysterious and voracious "Scran-bag."
On board a man-of-war tidiness is a matter of great importance, and with a view to enforcing it an officer—on Sundays and Thursdays the puissant captain himself—makes a tour of the entire ship at certain hours. Woe betide the luckless man who has left out of its place the smallest article! For when the decks are being cleared up for the "Rounds" (as the inspection is termed), here a towel that has been inadvertently left on a rack instead of being stowed away in its appointed place, the kit-bag—here a book, or a coat, or a pound of tobacco, stowed away out of sight behind a scuttle cover, and discovered by the insinuative, far-reaching hand of the "Crusher," as the ship's corporal is familiarly termed, a hand that has a pleasant knack of exploring out-of-the-way nooks and corners—in short, any article that is left about is confiscated, and placed within a huge canvas bag, the "Scran-bag."
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
A SKILFUL MACHINIST.
Every Thursday it is opened, and there gathers around it an excited knot of men who overhaul its contents thoroughly, a ship's corporal standing by to see that no man claims "what isn't his'n." But before the owner is allowed to take away his article he is mulcted in one penny for each article, to be put in the poor-box, or else he has to provide a piece of soap to be used in scrubbing decks.
Nearly everyone has seen "Ship's tobacco" in some form or other, but few know how the sailor prepares it for use. It is served out to him monthly, at the same time as his soap, in packages of 1 lb., for which he pays 1s. 1d., being allowed it duty free. It is a dark, rich leaf, and the first thing done is to remove the stems. This done, some water is sprinkled on the loose leaves (the old salt will prefer rum, to add to its strength and flavour), and the whole is enclosed in a piece of canvas and tightly bound with twine until it assumes a cigar-like shape, pointed at each end. Next some fine line is taken, one end secured to the tobacco and the other made fast to some strong support. One or two men now sit astride the line, and the tobacco is wound round and round, the weight of the men compressing it to about half its original bulk. When entirely covered with line it is tightly secured, and in two or three days is ready for use.
At night the men's time may fairly be considered their own. On certain evenings fresh water is served out for the washing of clothes, for Jack is his own washerwoman as well as tailor. That the marine is no less handy than his sailor brother may be gathered from the fact that the ship's cobbler usually belongs to that immensely useful branch of the service so aptly described by Kipling as "soldier and sailor too."
A number of men who are handy with razor and scissors make a good addition to their pay by attending to the tonsorial wants of their less gifted brethren, and shave and cut hair in a heavy sea-way with the ship rolling and pitching all over the place as easily as they do in harbour with an immovable deck to stand on.
"All work and no play"—the proverb was made for Jack; and though the bluejacket has to make his own amusement he does it as thoroughly as he does all else he puts his hand to. Nearly every ship in the navy has its nigger troupe or theatrical party, and some really clever performances are given; the make-up and dress are good, and would be no disgrace to a professional company. The fair sex, though absent, are hardly conspicuous thereby; few uninitiated eyes would detect in the female characters a middle-aged able-seaman or a cheeky young ordinary.
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
SAILORS CLAIMING THEIR ARTICLES ON THE OPENING OF THE "SCRAN-BAG."
A more athletic relaxation is boxing, which is—as it should be—a favourite amusement aboard. Many a good man has the Royal Marines or the navy supplied to the professional ring.
While the men are amusing themselves in various ways their superiors are likewise killing time, and will often indulge in cricket on the quarter-deck, which is screened with canvas to avoid losing the ball overboard. The game can only be played at sea, for in harbour the quarter-deck is required for more serious work. The ball is usually a soft tennis-ball. The officers don flannels, and many an exciting game, such as Ward-room v. Gun-room, is played, and continued at every opportunity till the match is finished.
Every officer aboard takes an interest in these matches, captain and commander often coming on deck to encourage their juniors with their august presence, and many a match won by the navy ashore has been due to the practice aboard. For if a man can play cricket with a sloping and mobile deck beneath him he can surely do better on a well-rolled pitch.
On Saturday nights, on such ships as carry one, the band discourses sweet dance-music for the delectation of the men; and these proverbially ardent lovers of Terpsichore are true to their goddess, even though the wind is howling great guns, and the ship rolling and pitching in such a way that none but true sons of Neptune could even walk upright, to say nothing of dancing.
When no band is carried, a miscellaneous collection of blue-jacket and marine musical amateurs supply the deficiency; and their music, though not perhaps up to the standard of Mr. Dan Godfrey, amply fulfils its requirements.
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
"JACK IS HIS OWN WASHERWOMAN."
When the ship is in harbour, leave is often allowed, and in connection with shore-going there is an interesting formality not generally known. It is one of the most heinous crimes in the naval decalogue to attempt to smuggle any intoxicant aboard; and to obviate such a possibility every man on returning from shore is searched by the corporal of the gangway, a ship's corporal standing by, book in hand, to enter the names of the offenders in the "black list," to be dealt with next day by the commander.
The corporal of the gangway is usually an experienced Marine told off for the duty, and under his hands it would be difficult for even the most crafty smuggler to conceal any liquor about his person.
But to the credit of our navy be it said that cases of smuggling are extremely rare.
As a general rule Jack Tar and Joe the Marine, though certainly sometimes labouring under conditions trying to even the most law-abiding civilian, conform to regulations and discipline with that breezy cheerfulness and brave good-will which makes them, as they always have been and it is to be hoped always will be, the idols of their countrymen, the proud boast of their nation, and a standing menace to her enemies.
Photo. R. Thiele & Co.
OFFICERS PLAYING CRICKET ON THE QUARTER DECK.
CRICKET SKETCHES.
Two Pages by Mr. "Rip."
| MR. K. J. KEY—A STATELY PROCESSION OF ONE. | ||
| AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE FOR THE GREAT ARTHUR SHREWSBURY. | ||
| AN ELEGANT BAT— MR. F. G. J. FORD. | "RANJI" MAKES A BRILLIANT CATCH. | LITTLE "BOBBY" ABEL GETTING AWAY WITH AN AWKWARD ONE. |
| FIREWORKS! AN OVER BY MR. JESSOP. | PHILLIPS, THE INTERNATIONAL UMPIRE. |
| BIG TOM RICHARDSON—READY TO KNOCK UP A BRISK DOZEN OR SO. |
HIS SOVEREIGN REMEDY.
A COMEDY IN AN OMNIBUS.
By Clarence Rook; Illustrated by B. E. Minns.
THE gloom was gathering. Ten minutes ago the conductor had leaned from his step, taken the lamp from some unseen hand, and stuck it up in its place by the door. The bus lurched round the corner into Bishop's Road. It was a Bayswater bus, and the old gentleman who was changing his seat drove his elbow into my hat.
"Bless me! I'm always doing that. Most extraordinary! I'm sure I beg your pardon."
I told him that it was of little consequence, and another swing of the bus seated him suddenly beside the tired-looking girl with a music portfolio in her hand. She opened her eyes for a moment, and then closed them again. The woman beyond shifted her baby to the other arm—the arm furthest removed from the old gentleman—and continued to rock it mechanically.
The old gentleman evinced a restlessness which was not suggested by his mild aspect and his white hair, though a closer examination revealed a certain furtive look in his eyes. Four separate times he had shifted his seat since I had taken my place in the corner next the door at Oxford Circus. A slight irritation at his want of repose caused me to shoot a protesting glance at him over the top of my evening paper, for few things annoy me so much as purposeless activity. Old gentlemen should be glad enough to sit still when they have the chance. But I could not find it in my heart to be angry with such a benevolent-looking old gentleman.
It was just then, as my eyes were returning to my paper, that the demon of suspicion took tentative hold upon my mind. "Why," I asked myself, "do nice-looking old gentlemen, with white hair and shifting eyes, want to change their place in a bus?"
The suspicion came—and went, for the kindly and venerable face gave no hold for doubt. But I laid down my paper upon my knees and leant back in the corner to watch him, speculating whether he would change his place again before we came to Westbourne Grove. The driver's whip-lash sounded on the middle pane opposite to me, and the bus slowed down to take up a passenger who, after a glance inside, mounted to the roof.
The conductor shoved his parcel up after him, pulled the string and resumed his position against the side of the door, where, upon that mysterious block which is kept in a receptacle over the entrance, he was apparently making sketches of the passengers inside. Mentally commending his diligence, I turned my eyes again to the old gentleman, who met my glance for a moment, and seemed to deprecate my displeasure by the lifting of his brows and a turn of his head.
As the bus quickened up again, the tired-looking girl swayed slightly, and her head sank upon the shoulder of the old gentleman. The old gentleman glanced sideways at the closed eyes of his neighbour, and, as a kindly smile stole over his face, his arm slid round the girl's waist. The pair made quite a pretty picture. The conductor at my elbow turned slightly, to get a better light upon his sketching block.
And then I noticed a curious disturbance—only a momentary rise and fall—in the dress of the sleeping girl. No one, so far as I could tell, had moved. The girl's hands were lying in her lap, precariously clasping her music portfolio. The disturbance occurred on the right side of the dress, which was the side furthest from the old gentleman in whose kindly embrace the girl lay.
"THE TIRED-LOOKING GIRL SWAYED SLIGHTLY."
The explanation came to me in a flash. In so sudden a flash that I turned in the same instant to the conductor and found his sidelong glance meeting mine.
"See that?" he muttered, under the clatter of the bus.
"I should think I did," I said, "he's picked her pocket."
"I've 'ad a eye on the old josser for the last month," he said. "I'll make it a fair cop this time. You're my witness."
"Well," I said, "I'm not awfully keen on being mixed up——"
"Bit of high-spyin' now," he said. "What's the matter with a little bit o' high-spyin', eh?"
The conductor mounted the steps to the roof. The tired girl, awakened suddenly to her position, straightened herself and peered anxiously through the window of the bus as though to make certain that she had not been carried to Wormwood Scrubs in her sleep. Reassured, she gathered up her portfolio in a firmer grasp with one hand, and with the other searched the back of her head for errant pins.
Round the edge of my paper I watched the old gentleman, whose eyes were now fixed obliquely upon the woman on his left. I distinctly saw his eyes travel down from the woman's face to her black cloth jacket, and stop at the outside pocket, from which her omnibus ticket was peeping. The pocket was on a level with, and almost touching his elbow, and his hand, his left hand, which was resting upon his knee, began slowly to travel towards the pocket of the tired-looking woman.
"APPARENTLY MAKING SKETCHES OF THE PASSENGERS."
The baby was kicking, grasping at the stuffy air with crinkled fingers, and threatened to give voice, and the tired-looking woman, rocking more anxiously than before, looked timidly from one neighbour to another as though in apology for the wrath to come.
At that moment my glance was attracted to a point above the old gentleman's head, where I met the eyes of the conductor, pressed close against the window-pane. A little higher was the tip of his nose, whitened by the pressure, and above that his stubby red moustache, underneath which a mouth gaped with inquiry. For a moment or two I was fascinated by the inverted face, which seemed to belong to some other-world creature which had tumbled from extra-mundane space and stuck fast upon the window of the Bayswater bus.
The benevolent old gentleman, quite unconscious of the watchful eyes behind his head, was regarding with a bland smile the advertisements on the window behind me. And as my eyes fell again on the spot where I had last seen his hand, I saw that it was not there. There never was a more unskilful performance. For there sat the old gentleman before my eyes, looking calmly over my head, with two fingers inserted into the pocket of the woman who was rocking the baby. As though it knew the wrong that was being done, the baby gave vent to the threatened yell, and the mother, patting it, and rocking it, and speaking to it in unknown tongues, saw nothing and felt nothing else.
Suddenly, as I watched, the benevolent old gentleman dropped his eyes from the advertisements, and mine arrested them as they fell. Never was an old gentleman so vastly perturbed. I almost felt sorry for him; for an aged criminal who has not learned the art of escaping detection and is therefore hopelessly incompetent, is a pathetic sight.
The omnibus stopped with a jerk just as we came within the range of the lamps at the corner, and the old gentleman, so evil were his deeds, seemed to shrink from the light. I was not quite certain of the etiquette with pickpockets. Ought I to leap upon him then and there and to denounce him? That would be melodramatic, I reflected; and I hate a scene; so I only raised myself from my seat, borrowed support from the handrail above my head, and waited upon events.
"TOWARDS THE POCKET OF THE TIRED-LOOKING WOMAN."
The tired girl bestirred herself and looked round, the woman with the baby changed her burden again from one arm to the other and peered anxiously at the door.
"Royal Oak," I said, answering her look of inquiry.
She sank back in her seat and closed her eyes, and at the same moment the old gentleman jumped up and shambled towards the door, while the other passengers carefully drew in their toes.
By this time I noticed that the conductor's face had detached itself from the window. Three people had risen to leave; but the old gentleman was first, being clearly in a hurry; and as he found himself unable to pass me, half-standing and half-sitting, with my hand on the overhead rail, he looked pleadingly at me, as though imploring my silence. I hesitated a moment. It was none of my business to arrest criminals. But I did not mind giving a passive support to the cause of justice, so I stayed where I was. And then the conductor appeared, blocking the doorway.
"No, yer don't," he said.
"My good man," began the old gentleman, "I sincerely trust I have given no offence. I only——"
"I see yer," said the conductor, looking over his shoulder towards the public-house, and jerking his head.
"Then kindly oblige me," said the old gentleman, "by not making a fuss. If a sovereign now——"
"Oh, stow it," said the conductor. "You've done it once too often, that's what you 'ave. I see yer right enough this time, and you're going to be give in chawge, that's what you are. Strite."
The old gentleman looked helplessly round him. Impatient passengers began to remonstrate from the step; others from the kerb.
"AS I WATCHED."
"'Old on," said the conductor, "we're all goin' 'ome to tea."
A policeman crossed from the opposite corner.
"'Igher up there!" he remarked, dispassionately.
"Look 'ere, constable," said the conductor, "'ere's a job in your line." Then his tone became official. "I 'ereby give this man in chawge for picking pockets."
"Oh," said the policeman, scattering the bunch of people gathered round the step.
"I see him—and this gentleman 'ere see him," said the conductor. "'Tain't the first time, neither. Old 'and, he is; that's what he is."
The doorway was now blocked by the policeman's form.
"That ain't good enough for me," he said. "Any of you ladies and gentlemen lost anything?"
"I see 'is 'and in that lydy's pocket," said the conductor, pointing over the constable's shoulder at the woman with the baby. "You feel in your pocket, lydy."
Then ensued a general searching of pockets, while a rival omnibus swept by triumphantly and gathered up such passengers as were too impatient to await the outcome of the situation.
I leaned forward and said in an undertone to the girl with the portfolio, who alone of the passengers shewed no interest in the contents of her pocket, "You had better look in your pocket, I feel convinced it was picked while you were asleep upon his shoulder."
"'I GIVE THIS MAN IN CHARGE FOR PICKING POCKETS.'"
"I wasn't," she said, abruptly. Then, reflecting apparently that she was rude as well as tired, she added, "I've nothing worth stealing, thank you all the same."
In a desultory way she began fumbling in the pocket of her dress. The old gentleman stood by the policeman. His face had grown very red; his eyes, wandering from one passenger to another, became suddenly fixed, and his face was redder than ever. It was sufficiently obvious that he was very uneasy. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw the baby's head hanging at an alarming angle over the woman's arm. The mother was leaning towards the light and looking at the contents of her free hand—a bus ticket, two pennies, a farthing, and a sovereign.
"Now, then! lost anything, mem?" asked the conductor.
"No, I ain't lost nothing," she began, slowly.
The old gentleman nodded to her pleasantly.
"Though," she continued, "I don't rightly understand why——"
"I think this must belong to you, sir," said the girl with the portfolio, suddenly, holding out a sovereign to the old gentleman.
"Not at all, my dear; nothing to do with me, nothing whatever," he said, nodding his head at her. "Old enough to be your grandfather, too!"
"Now then, what's all that?" asked the policeman.
"Only this gentleman must have been putting a sovereign into my pocket, and I insist—oh! I insist——"
"Look here, constable," said the old gentleman, "can't you see that you are embarrassing the young lady? Any little transaction between her and me is none of your business, or anyone else's either."
The old gentleman stamped impotently upon the floor of the omnibus.
"He's been giving money away," said the policeman over his shoulder to the conductor, "looks like."
"And why not, why not?" said the old gentleman. "What's the good of having money if you can't make people happy with it?"
The constable looked reflectively at him.
"I dunno," he said. "I'd better take your name and address."
The old gentleman looked apprehensively round. Then he took a card from his pocket and gave it to the policeman.
"'YOU GO HOME,' HE SAID."
"Please don't read it out," he said.
The policeman looked at the card, put it into his pocket-book, and made a note in pencil. Then he swung himself off the omnibus and looked hard at the old gentleman as he descended slowly.
"You go home," he said. "You want to be took care of, you do."
The conductor stood upon the kerb with his hand on the rail, looking after the old gentleman as he trudged off towards Royal Oak Station.
"'Urry up there," said the constable. "Wastin' my time," he added, as he turned his back.
The conductor rang the bell and leaned dolefully against the stairway as the bus started away from the dispersing crowd.
The girl with the portfolio was regarding her sovereign thoughtfully, holding it between her thumb and forefinger; then she returned it with her handkerchief to her pocket, looked doubtfully round and blushed slightly.
The woman with the baby was biting something, which, as she caught my eye, she hurriedly slipped into her jacket pocket. "Not that I'd be be'olden to anybody," she remarked at large, rocking her baby with much energy, "me 'usband earning good money, thanks be. But peliteness is peliteness——"
"You may think yer know yer way abart," said the conductor, looking at me and jerking his head up and down, "but now and then you find you're left—badly left. Now, think o' that! Droppin' sovereigns all over the place. Well, I wish I'd a'knowed!"
Photo by Landor, Ealing